


Life from Death

by Monster Merlin (ScribeAzari)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reapertale (Undertale), F/M, Fluff, Sans worries a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 03:44:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17337959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeAzari/pseuds/Monster%20Merlin
Summary: A god of Death discovers that he, too, can play a part in creation.





	Life from Death

It was perhaps an alien idea, that an embodiment of demise could _feel_ as deeply and as vividly as anyone more conventionally accepted to be alive – possibly one factor among many contributing to the unease of the population to the newer members of the pantheon – but they could, whether they wished it or not.

The smaller of the reapers was the better at subduing and concealing his emotions, but even he could not sink entirely into numbness. Even he could not evade the thrill of discovery, the wonder, the tension and ire. Such as he could and _did_ taste elation and excitement, passion and the fear of reprisal. However he came by it, Sans had love, as fierce and wild as any mortal’s - and as anxious and at times clumsy besides.

Being a harvester of souls, he was not used to being cared for - and deemed worthy of such care - by any save his brother. It amazed him, even after so long, that his revered opposite number could harbour such affection for him - and this after having once reviled the very concept he represented. It was really one of the more unlikely matches he could think of - she was a creature of breath, warmth and movement, while such things stilled and slipped away upon his slightest touch.

She was an elegant masterpiece, form and temperament - the passion and love she held for her purpose and all that sprung from it shining in her eyes and echoed in her voice. He was… he was half of a _mistake,_ botched from the beginning and without much real joy in his unrelenting, thankless task. He knew that she wasn’t perfect - it would be hard to hold lasting connections with any anomaly who somehow managed to be - but he didn’t feel as though he was anywhere near her on the scale.

For all that he had so often heard - and come to feel - that he could never be _good enough,_ Toriel had a different story to tell. He held close the memories of her honeyed sunbeam tones murmuring to him that he was not at fault for how he had come to be - that if endings must come to the souls she had crafted, she was glad that they had him to guide and protect them on their way - that he did not have to try to be anything that he was not. That he was worthy of life - and worthy of Life.

These words, so gently spoken, thrummed and resonated within his skull whenever he thought of them, and made him feel lighter inside. In time, he grew to feel less guilty about being drawn to her - though he could not entirely silence the voice inside that whispered reminders to him that his reason to be was to spirit away the spark that she so lovingly gave, he felt that he had begun to make peace with it. If she could accept what he was, then why couldn’t he? He owed no allegiance to the fear and loathing others aimed at him.

As few would willingly socialise with Death, it was perhaps unsurprising that Sans did not quite grasp how much hovering was reassuring and supportive, and how much was really too much. Even had he perceived the difference, however, he may well have persisted, so fretful and full of warring emotions did he find himself.

It wasn’t often that so many feelings at once assaulted his mind - fear and worry melting into incredulous joy and disbelief, stirred in with a nervous tension and expectation that seemed to vibrate within his very being. It was confusing and hard to think past. Dare he draw near? Was there some task he needed to fulfil? Did she need his support?

Even as he thought these things, however, their counterparts buzzed around in his brain pan like flies. Would getting too close be a mistake? He knew he could touch _her,_ but what she was doing? His very touch could jeopardise everything. Perhaps even his proximity could be harmful at so delicate a stage. Thus, he hovered, vacillating back and forth as he waited, neither wanting to risk approaching too near nor to drift so far as to not be there for Toriel.

A sound. A voice, raised in uncomprehending protestation. Shrill, warbling, brash and _new._ Sans could not have said how long he remained frozen in place, the gears of his mind ground to stopping by the wail. At every stage, throughout the process, he had feared - and doubted close to his inner self that Death could have any part in _creating._ Toriel had smiled, had told him she was sure that he was quite alive enough to be a part of such a thing - and that it would be no shame on him if he _were_ barren. That there were always other ways to nurture, to create, or to find peace and happiness in oneself and one’s love.

Even so, he had not quite believed any of those things, deep inside, until he heard and understood that he - _he_ \- was truly a father. He’d thought he had a firm grasp on the situation, but now it all seemed so much more _real,_ and he didn’t know whether he was as prepared as he had thought. What if the baby carried some form of defect of his origin?

Could he stand the guilt and pain that would surely find their home in his core if he had to carry them away when they had hardly begun? What if their magic sang mortal to his senses, and he could not touch them even once until their time came? What if Asgore heard of this, and found reason to be wrathful? _He_ could stand being hated a little more by one of his creators - he already knew how they saw him - but what of the little one?

Toriel was calling him. Wrestling with his fears and doubts, Sans followed her voice and made his way deeper into her sanctum. There, nestled in her arms, was a radiant little impossibility. As he drew closer, he could make out more detail - they were glowing translucently white, like the manifestations of magic into shapes that he and his brother sometimes produced. This young, unaligned magic enveloped their bones like flesh, and it was like seeing a living creature and the bones it became superimposed on one another, but somehow fluidly and full of self.

Wonderment shot through him, mingled with incomprehension - what was he seeing? As he watched, the baby began to suck on one long, floppy glowing ear, and Toriel beamed at him. He met her eyes wordlessly, awe plain in his usually mask-like features, and she whispered reassurance to him that he almost couldn’t take in as his senses told him what she must surely have already noticed.

The baby’s magic sang and resonated with _both_ of their tones, interwoven and sparkling - metamorphosis - renewal - life _from_ death - Rebirth. He had no words, nor way to express them if he had. “I thought we might name them Sariel, that they may carry a combination of our names as well as of our magic.” She suggested softly, unable to keep the smile from her face or her voice. “I have long been fond of that tradition, and I have to say it would be apt.”

He could only nod mutely, reaching out carefully - oh so carefully - ready to pull back at the slightest hint from the youngling’s magic… he could touch them. They were alive, and they were looking at him and burbling, and they knew him - and he could touch them and they were _alive._ Heedless of the tears running unevenly down his cheekbones, he allowed Toriel to direct his arms and place the infant there for him to hold. He was so happy that it hurt, and he would not have changed a thing.


End file.
